“Your Imperial Highness is splendidly disguised. How did you make yourself appear so stout? A little cushion stuffed inside somewhere, I suppose?” His Majesty told this story against himself several times, especially when the lady, who previous to her marriage was attached to the service of the Empress, happened to be present. He would roll his eyes in pretended anger while he said: “Of course there was no cushion--there was only me; but I believe she said it on purpose. She knew who it was all the time.” It was a toilsome business to tramp so many miles in the hot sun, and though the Empress herself was at that time a good walker, she had hard work to keep up with her energetic husband, while the Princess frankly confessed that she was half dead after one of “Papa’s” brisk constitutionals. Elderly Germans, especially at Court, do not walk much habitually. They occasionally take exercise of the kind as a “cure,” making it into something of a solemn, ponderous rite, strolling along under the forest trees hat in hand, with frequent pauses to look at the scenery; but this is not what the Emperor understands by walking. Every Sunday morning the ladies and gentlemen of the suite used to assemble before church time on the terrace opposite the great statue (copied from the Farnese Hercules) which stands away at the top of the hill crowning the artificial rock terraces, caves and cascades made by a former Landgraf of Hesse-Cassel. This statue is so large that a man can stand inside the club upon which Hercules leans. The weather was always judged (or misjudged) according to whether _Herkules_ loomed near or retired into the background. After standing a little, and chatting in the usual desultory way of people who meet often and rarely have new experiences to confide, the Empress and Princess would appear, followed by the Emperor. On my first visit to Wilhelmshöhe, as we wended our way to the little chapel in one wing of the Palace, the Emperor said that he hoped I would “sing in a loud, deep voice” in church, because the singing was usually very bad. I commented on the slowness of German hymn-singing, and His Majesty told me how surprised he was once, when visiting at Windsor “with Grandmamma” a year or two before she died, to hear the organ burst out suddenly into the Austrian National Anthem, not knowing that it had been adopted as an English hymn-tune. The way to the chapel was through a long matted corridor hung with queer old-fashioned paintings of distorted-looking animals. Just before the door of the royal pew hung on each side of the wall two pictures of ferocious cows whose eyes followed with a threatening glare as people went in or out of chapel. Underneath the cows was placed the alms-dish for the contributions of Their Majesties and the Court.